


The Syntax of Things

by amultitudeofsins



Category: The 100 (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amultitudeofsins/pseuds/amultitudeofsins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks in part to a gentle push from Raven, Abby and Marcus confront their growing feelings for one another. Set after the Season 2 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Syntax of Things

It’s peaceful in medical thanks to their (likely temporary) truce with the grounders, giving Abby the opportunity to organize supplies. Not the most thrilling work, but she’ll take it since it means all of her people are healthy, and she has nothing else to do but wait for Marcus. He was vague earlier when he requested a meeting with her in passing, and her thoughts have unintentionally strayed to him on and off all day.

She wants him. That startling and mildly disturbing fact was made abundantly clear to her around the time she realized the beam cutting into the flesh of his thigh was the only thing keeping him alive. She wants him, and it could only end in disaster. This life they’ve built here on the ground stands like a house of cards, and they can barely manage being friends. Who knows what sort of chaos would ensue if they tried anything beyond that.

She also can’t be certain of how he feels about her. Perhaps she’s still nothing more to him than the perpetual thorn in his side. But every time she tries to convince herself of his indifference toward her she remembers the way he fought against the cuffs on his wrists while she was being strapped to the operating table and the sound of his voice as he pleaded for her life.

“Afternoon, Chancellor,” that same voice from her thoughts, though softer and calmer now, shatters her reverie.

“Marcus,” she greets him with a smile. “You had something you wanted to discuss?”

“Yes, Sinclair and Wick would like to take a look at the supplies and technology at Mt. Weather. I thought I’d take a few members of the guard and escort them there."

“You’re leaving?”

The question spills from her mouth before she can stop it, and it takes everything in her not to cringe at the panic in her voice. This will be the first time they’ve been separated since before Ton DC, and when did her sense of security become so inextricably tied to knowing he is safe and near? She can feel her peace of mind begin to dwindle already.

“Just for three days,” he assures her.

“How many guards are you taking with you?” she asks in an attempt to smooth the awkwardness of her blunder.

“I was thinking we would take Porter and Lang,” he replies.

“You need at least two more.”

“Abby,” he begins in that tone that he uses when he thinks she’s being unreasonable. It always rubs her the wrong way, and it has her voice rising now.

“We have no idea where we stand with the grounders, Marcus. They could be gearing up for war against us as we speak.”

He moves closer to her while she’s laying out her argument. At first it seems like he plans to tower over her the way he used to on the ark, but he doesn’t square his shoulders, and he keeps his stance relaxed. It feels more placating than intimidating.

“Which is why we can’t spare the guards. You need them here to protect the camp,” he argues, and then he takes her by surprise when he raises his hand and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

There’s an awful moment in which she fears he has figured out her feelings somehow and is trying to manipulate her. Marcus is cunning, but she’s found over the years that his eyes tend to give him away. She searches them now and sees they are soft, open, and guileless.

“At least one more. Take Miller,” she insists, holding his gaze to make it clear she isn’t backing down.

“Fine,” he relents, and the corner of his mouth tips up as he stares down at her.

“Abby, do you know where I could find-” Raven stops her progress into the room when she sees them. “Oh my bad, am I interrupting something?”

Her smirk makes it obvious she hopes the answer is yes, but Marcus just smiles at her and replies in the negative before leaving.

She sleeps poorly the two nights he’s away from camp, and she finds herself praying that the circles under her eyes escape his notice as the group makes their way back in through the gates. They bring with them, among other things, three boxes filled with books. Abby watches on in the council room as Raven and Octavia tear through the stacks with a childlike enthusiasm, amazed and grateful that being on the ground hasn’t beaten it out of them.

“Can I take this?” Raven asks eventually, holding up a small volume on which Abby catches the title 100 Selected Poems.

“Sure,” she replies. They should probably set up some kind of library system so that the people of the camp can borrow and return the books, but letting Raven have one book of poetry seems rather harmless.

She doesn’t realize her mistake until later that evening when a small group has gathered around a fire on the outskirts of the camp. Octavia and Lincoln sit to her right, and Wick, Raven, and Sinclair are excitedly chatting about the supplies from Mt. Weather to her left.

Marcus wanders over to join their group, leaning casually against a tree across the fire from where she sits, and Raven suddenly gets an unsettling gleam in her eye. She pulls out the book, finds a specific page, and then thrusts it into Wick's hands.

“Read this one,” she instructs in a tone that makes it clear she expects acquiescence. Wick just smiles fondly and does as he’s told, his voice carrying and clear.

 

_since feeling is first_

_who pays any attention_

_to the syntax of things_

 

Abby looks back to Raven, but she doesn’t catch her eye. The younger woman is too busy studying Marcus intently as Wick continues reading.

 

_will never wholly kiss you;_

_wholly to be a fool_

_while Spring is in the world_

 

She sense his eyes are on her now. Her skin feels too tight, and she has to fight to suppress a shiver.

 

_my blood approves,_

_and kisses are a better fate_

_than wisdom_

 

Nearly against her will, her gaze flits over to meet his, and she inhales sharply at what she sees. His eyes are dark boring into hers from across the fire, and in addition to the light dancing in them, there’s an intensity there that she has never seen before, not even in the midst of their most heated arguments.

 

_lady I swear by all flowers. Don’t cry_

_-the best gesture of my brain is less than_

_your eyelids’ flutter which says_

_we are for each other:_

 

She wishes she could look away. His gaze has turned inquisitive, like he’s searching for something in hers. She feels like an open book, and the thought of him reading her makes her shift uncomfortably where she sits.

 

_then laugh, leaning back in my arms_

_for life’s not a paragraph_

_And death I think is no parenthesis_

 

“Pretty,” Octavia whispers, and a few other murmur their agreements. Just like that the spell between them breaks, and she’s suddenly desperate to be anywhere else.

“You okay, Abby?” Raven asks, completely devoid of humor, and she doesn’t want to think about how transparent she must be if Raven is genuinely concerned.

“Fine, just tired. I’m going to turn in,” she declares, and then departs without a second glance.

She only has a moment to calm her racing heartbeat before she realizes he’s followed her to her quarters. She doesn’t trust her voice right now, so she raises her eyebrows in silent question as to what he’s doing there.

“I think we should talk,” he says with just a hint of hesitancy in his voice.

She’s not ready to confront these feelings, and she’s scared. The way she feels about him terrifies her, so she takes the cowardly way out and feigns ignorance.

“Whatever it is, can it wait until tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”

For a second, something like disappointment passes over his face, but then he nods wordlessly and moves to leave. But just as he reaches the threshold, he turns on his heel and marches back toward her, resolve clear on his face. She probably should have known he wouldn’t let her off the hook that easily. He comes to a stop right in front of her and shifts his weight restlessly from one foot to the other before he finally speaks.

“Abby, please just, tell me I’m projecting. Tell me you don’t feel anything between us, and I’ll go.”

He sounds a little desperate, and things would be so much easier if she could do what he’s asking of her, but she has never been able to lie to him. He’s always seen right through her.

“I…” she begins, staring at his chest because she can’t bring herself to look him in the eye. “I can’t.”

His shoulders relax slightly at her confession, and when he brings his hand up to cradle her cheek, her eyes flutter closed. He draws closer to her until his forehead rests against hers, but he stops there. Apparently he’s decided that the final move should be hers to make.

She’s so tired of fighting this, this thing that they both so clearly want, so she surges forward onto the tips of her toes and presses her lips against his.

He responds immediately. The hand that was resting against her cheek moves to tangle in her hair, and he angles her head slightly to deepen the kiss. She moves them both toward her cot, tugging lightly on his arm to make her intentions clear, but he resists her. She makes a quiet sound of protest when he starts to pull away.

“Abby,” he whispers breathlessly as he strokes his thumb along her jaw. “We should slow down.”

“Marcus, I want this,” she tells him as she sneaks her fingers under the hem of his shirt to trace lightly along his abs. “I want you.”

He shivers at her touch, his brow furrowing. He searches her face for something, and whatever it is he must find it because the next thing she knows she’s lying on her back with the length of his body gently pressing into hers.

Nothing about them makes sense, and there is no reason this should feel so right. But it does. She’s not sure anything has ever felt more right in her life. She’d sooner die than admit how many times she has thought about this, but she always imagined it would be frantic, not this achingly slow and sweet. Every touch is measured and deliberate, and of course he would be as meticulous in this as he is in every other aspect of his life.

Neither speaks for a long time after their breathing has calmed. The weight of what they’ve just done feels too oppressive for words, but she stays close to him, her head resting above his sternum.

“We’ll fuck this up,” she whispers eventually. It’s jarring how their roles have reversed. How, in this situation, Marcus is the one spreading faith and optimism.

“I won’t let us,” he murmurs into her hair. He sounds so certain and determined, and she wants so badly to believe him. “I finally have you. There’s no way I’m letting you go.”

She’s surprised by his statement, and she can’t stop herself from jumping on it. Lifting her head up to look him in the eye, suddenly amused, she teasingly asks, “Finally? Exactly how long have you been pining for me?”

He blushes at that. Marcus Kane actually blushes, and it’s one of the cutest things she’s ever seen.

“Go to sleep,” he grumbles with a frown that looks like it’s requiring far too much effort to keep on his face, and he pulls her tighter against his chest.

She can’t help worrying about the implications of this, how things will change and all the ways it could go spectacularly wrong. But she finds solace in his quiet confidence, and the soothing way his hand skims up and down her back eventually lulls her to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I took a few liberties with the structure of 'since feeling is first'. I hope any die hard E. E. Cummings fans will forgive me.


End file.
